Unbreakable
by Michelle My Belle
Summary: Red gives Lizzie a history lesson. (Lizzington AU.)
1. Disclosure

A/N: Trying my hand at a multi-chapter work - thanks for indulging me! Backstory, Tom-less, eventual Lizzington. I do not own these characters.

_**Chapter 1: Disclosure**_

Spring afternoons in Waverly, Nebraska were full and fair. Young lovers in rolled pant legs waded in Stevens Creek, its brisk and clear flow a refreshing and fun afternoon date. Early plantings had begun to spring up from the earth showering the countryside with baby green sprouts. New life was all around. Elizabeth Scott was just a few weeks from celebrating her eighteenth birthday, usually an exciting time for any young woman. But coming of age held no specific excitement or joy for Elizabeth. To her, it heralded the beginning of the end. The end of being so close to the man who wholly loved her and considered it the highest calling he could have to be her protector.

The tiny town she lived in with her father was like many other small mid-western farming communities. Crime was nearly non-existent and it was the kind of place where everyone knew each other's name and business. Except hers. The little girl who came to live with Sam fourteen years ago was shrouded in secrecy. Little was known about her real parents or why Sam was specifically chosen to look after her. He liked it that way. The less information that got around about his princess, the better. For nearly a decade and a half, he shored up defenses around her, effectively shielding her and her past from anyone that got close. Even Elizabeth, herself, knew not the truth of her origins. Sam preferred to be her white knight, nobly adopting her, making her his own and making the best life he could as a single dad could. It was a good life. Though they had few friends and a modest lifestyle, they were content with each other.

Theirs was a simple comfort. At first, her adjustment to living with him was tenuous, but through time and healing she began to trust him and develop a real love for him. In the beginning, it was in the way he would quiet her after a nightmare or hold her when she was sick, but it gradually turned into a loving respect for who he was, his struggle as a single dad and the way he always put her first, sacrificing so she had everything she could want or need. He was her friend. Her only family.

Sam was everything to her and leaving him was going to break her.

By the end of the summer, the tension in the Scott house was palpable and neither cared to admit what was bubbling just under the surface. Always the stoic, Liz pushed down her discomfort of the impending change to come. It came easily, a trait she assumed from her adoptive father. But refusing to address things was only stalling the inevitable. The night before she left for Columbia University, she knew, was her last chance.

"Dad, we need to talk. Before I leave for New York, I desperately need some answers. I deserve answers," she began to pace in front of him, launching into her opening arguments and readying herself for his pushback. "I've lived basically my whole life not knowing the truth about my parents and instead believing what I've been told is a lie! I just don't know how I can leave with this still hanging over me."

"Butterball, you have a valid argument and I have always known on some level that this day would come. You're a very intelligent young woman and keeping the truth from you has been a real challenge. But it's been one I have gladly taken on to keep you safe," he admitted.

"Please don't take this the wrong way. I appreciate all that you've done to protect me from this. But a criminal profiler digs into the psyche of a person to determine why they make the choices they make and their past has an impact on those choices. I don't know how I can effectively pursue this career with no shred of knowledge about my own past!" she said, her tone and volume beginning to rise. He held his hand out to her, conveying seriousness, stalling. Taking his hand in hers, she sank down next to him. The conflicting voices were warring within him. Tell her. Don't tell her. She wouldn't relent.

Sam sat back for a moment, rubbing his forehead and thinking furiously about what he could say to appease her. Could he just tell a half-truth? Whatever he did divulge, she will likely run right at it, using whatever resources she could employ at the university to research and hunt. She was an adult now, capable of making her own decisions and accepting responsibility for them. He could only hope that she would treat his revelation with caution.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, buying just a few more seconds of the happy bubble he had painstakingly spent years creating for her. "Elizabeth, you know that I adopted you because your parents died when you were four. You had no other relatives to care for you. What you don't know is that only your mother passed away the night of the fire." There was no turning back now. "While intentionally set to kill your father, he escaped, leaving your mother behind to perish in the flames. Your father was presumed dead, the official report even confirmed it. In reality, he escaped that night and you were brought to me before he could find out that you made it out of the fire. I haven't thought much about it, but he could still be alive," he confessed, feeling one weight lifted only to be replaced by an altogether different substantially heavy dread.

She could only stare blankly back at him and attempt to process the enormity of his disclosure. Why would someone intentionally try to kill her father? Could he really be alive after all the years that have passed? Why go through all the trouble to keep this from her? She had thousands of questions, but one that couldn't wait any longer.

"What is my biological father's name?" she asked.

He hesitated, formulating his response. "Sweetheart, it wasn't safe for you to know then. I can only assume the same is true now. When you were brought to me, that was the most important instruction I was given," he explained.

Refusing to admit defeat, she countered, "Then at least tell me who brought me to you for safekeeping? You gotta give me something."

"It's not as easy as simply giving you a name. Years before you were brought to me, I was in the Navy and quickly became good friends with a fellow Ensign who would eventually become my Lieutenant Commander. His rise in the Navy was meteoric, his strength and intelligence simply unmatched. But I think it was also, in part, due to his charisma and likeability. He had a way with people, drawing them in, making them feel known. We hit it off right away," he began to trail off, clearly lost in his own memories of this man.

"Well anyway, he was chosen for a special operations unit, I wasn't, and we lost touch." Her heart fell at Sam's sad and distant expression. His pain at losing this friend was evident and was a side of him she had rarely seen. "He was assigned to a deep cover op for a couple of years and in that time, I got a few letters, just enough to let me know he was still alive but couldn't give much away about his position," he rose and crossed to a bookshelf. Pulling out a few dusty encyclopedia volumes, he reached with the other hand to the back of the shelves and retrieved a partially rusted box. Replacing the books, he returned and sat down right next to his daughter, his hands trembling. Fumbling with the lid, he gently opened the box revealing a worn leather diary inside with frayed twine holding it closed.

Sam carefully fingered the twine, slowly leafing through the delicate pages. She stared down at the hidden treasure that lay in his hands in awe. She had never seen this box or its contents. What else had lay seemingly in plain sight but beyond her understanding? She was afraid to follow that line of thinking any further, for now.

He stopped when he reached a worn photo of himself and another distinguished, handsome man, both in their dress blues. An elegant party. Their smiles held the warmth and excitement of youth, of lives yet unmarred by time and torment. She reached out to lay her hand over his, bringing him back to the moment.

"This was the last night I saw him before he showed up here with you," he recalled, whisper-like, as if just to remind himself.

"This…is him?" looking at Sam quizzically. She couldn't believe she was finally getting a glimpse into truth about her past. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but she couldn't have imagined this, the intensity of emotions tightening in her chest. There was something entrancing about his smile and his eyes, as if they were staring right into her. Spellbound and stone-still, she continued to stare in the angelic eyes of her rescuer.

"Elizabeth, this is my best friend, Lt. Commander Raymond Reddington. I owe him my life. And yours."


	2. Chance Encounter

He lurked in the shadows. Always in the shadows. Lying in wait, for her. For years. He admired her from afar, keeping tabs through associates, occasionally including Sam. Through intricately established and hidden in plain sight employees, there was always someone close, blending in, listening in, reporting back to Reddington. Elizabeth was none the wiser.

Her small town upbringing hadn't prepared her for city living. Sam called every Sunday afternoon to hear about her week. Elizabeth would regale him with stories about her seminars, the museum she'd just visited or a contemporary restaurant she had visited recently with friends. It was a life he couldn't completely fathom. Aside from his time in the Navy, he had always been a country boy. During her third and fourth years at Columbia, she waited tables part time at a diner near Riverside Park. He was concerned for her safety, a beautiful young woman shouldn't walk alone after dark, he'd say. She scoffed at his concern but promised to get someone to walk her home from work if she could. Sam would hear about a mugging or burglary near the park on the news and call her frantically. She had suggested that he not to watch the news.

The intrusive alarm clock rang Monday morning after a full weekend of work and study. It became her routine to snooze a few times and opt for casual dress and a pony tail in lieu of waking early and putting thought into her wardrobe. Who did she have to impress? It was that thought that allowed her to justify becoming a little more lax in the way she prepared for the day, especially as a senior, her graduation day drawing ever near. Running particularly late one fall day caused her to break into a light sprint on her way to class. Elizabeth had always been a runner, but having the university fitness center so close had given her more time to develop her love of the sport. Gym. Work. Study. She knew her life wasn't incredibly interesting but it was also uncomplicated. Uncomplicated was working just fine.

Still running, she rounded the corner toward the building her Cognitive Behavior seminar was in when she smacked into someone, and losing her balance, fell. It happened so fast she hadn't even seen who it was, until he knelt down to offer her his hand. Shaking the shock off, she finally looked up into a pair of stormy sea green eyes fixed intently on hers. Her stomach flipped, reminding her that she was not dreaming and actually was still on the ground in a hallway, books strewn about. She looked around and worked fast to find words, movements, anything really so as not appear stunned.

"I'm sorry. I'm so late," she managed, trailing off as their eyes met again.

"No apology is necessary. It appears I in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps the right place at the right time?" he quipped, pushing his offered hand a little closer until she finally slipped her petite hand into his. He was strong, warm and mysterious. He stood, taking her hand with him and steadying her as she rose.

"I still can't believe I ran into you. I actually don't think I saw you coming," she admitted.

"I generally try to blend in," he joked. Who was he kidding? Nobody wore tailored three-piece suits anymore. Well, none of her professors did and that was the extent of her experience with adult men outside of Nebraska. He had a distinguished look about him, like wisdom and money. He certainly didn't blend in looking the way he did. She was suddenly aware of her state of dress and hair. Self-consciousness crept its way up her neck and onto her cheeks as she felt the intensity of his stare, strangely odd, oddly familiar.

She glanced down at the books once more, avoiding the awkwardness of her clear lack of any intelligible words. He stooped down to retrieve her belongings from the floor and handing them to her, their fingers connected briefly. She began to part her lips to express her appreciation but the electricity from his touch put her on pause once more. He had to break the silence, unwilling for this unexpected meeting to turn into something more official. Raymond Reddington was, if nothing else, a calculating planner. This accidental meeting was not part of his plans where she was concerned.

"Well, Elizabeth, it was a pleasure but I must be going and I imagine you have a class to be in?"

"Yes, I, wait, we didn't even exchange names," she said, her implied question hanging between them.

"Your student I.D.," he said motioning to her name and picture on a lanyard. He tipped his head down as if to bow to her, holding his fedora. "Until we meet again," he offered in place of a good-bye and turned on his heel to leave before she could protest. She eyed him until he disappeared from sight.

It's an interesting phenomenon that an hour can feel excruciatingly like days.

Elizabeth was the first to exit the class once it was over. Being the last in had an advantage on this occasion. Her eyes swept the halls, frantically in search of him. She was sure she had never seen him on campus before but she was equally as sure that she wanted to see him again. Fast. Defeated, she returned to her apartment for plan B. She quickly flipped open her laptop and went to the faculty section of the school's website, skimming over every male professor, adjunct or otherwise, looking for him. It was no use. None of them were as attractive or well dressed and none of them had eyes like his. Closing her own eyes, she felt her way back to the moment in the hallway and the embers blazing in his stare. A fire altogether separate ignited low in her belly. She swore she had never been looked at like that. A stranger had captured her in mere moments and left her wanting more. The two guys she had seen casually in the last few years were fairly immature when compared to her and if honest, were only in it with her for one thing. She gave it up a few times, longing to somehow feel a connection, feel pretty, valued, important – feel anything, but she lost interest in them once she caught on. Being single was preferable to her over being someone's conquest. The next time she did it, it would be for the long play.

Seeing him again was beginning to consume her mind and body. Sleep would evade her over the next few days. Food was only a necessity, not a desire. Never had she felt so hell-bent on anything. She took long walks in the evenings off campus, stopping in a cigar bar or two that catered to the wealthier, more discerning gentleman, just hoping to run into him again. She was desperate for their meet-cute, part two, with way more staring into each other's eyes and a lot less smacking into each other with unintended force. At least if anything ever came of it, they'd have an interesting story to tell of how they met. She'd leave out the part where she hunted him down like a lost puppy.

Gradually, discouragement, along with the piercing chill of winter set into her bones. It had been two months since the day she met him: the unnamed mystery man that knew her name, the man who had comfortably taken up residence in her dreams.

It was a bitter winter's day in January when she stopped by the campus post office before heading home. She grabbed her stack of mail and customarily thumbed through the junk mail and magazines without interest. The last piece was unique, ivory linen stock with her name inscribed in crimson. She fumbled to get it open, her breath catching in her throat in anticipation. Inside the envelope was a matching card with the following in the same crimson:

_Ready to meet again? I'll be waiting, tomorrow at 8pm. The Lucerne, 79__th__ & Amsterdam._


	3. Prelude

She read over the crimson handwriting several times:_ I'll be waiting, tomorrow…_

Tomorrow.

It had to be him. Every moment of their encounter echoed over and over in her mind. 'Until we meet again.' The warmth she felt at his touch, the fire in his gaze. His desire to see her again. She had twenty-four more agonizing hours to mull this over. And decide what to wear.

It had been months since she had been on a date. Whether that is what this was or not, she still felt those flutters in her stomach at the thought of all the firsts. First time a man put his hand at the small of her back. First getting to know you, getting to know all about you conversations. First kiss. First…well. She was quickly getting far ahead of herself. The intrigue of this mysterious man and their next meeting was the most thrilling thing to happen to her in a long time. Perhaps ever.

Elizabeth had never been to The Lucerne. The hotel was a few blocks from her apartment but in the world of college-aged guys she had gone out with, it might as well have been a world away. Dating in college seemed to involve a fair amount of niche coffee shops or hole in the wall Italian restaurants. She couldn't really blame the budget of a college student. That struggle was all too familiar, save for her ability to have the kind of apartment that she did. The kind that fellow students were jealous of. She lived in an up and coming and, most importantly to Sam, safer part of town. Sam somehow was able to secure this place for her and take care of her rent. She took care of the rest with her part-time income. Funny, how she always felt her upbringing was modest and now she had a somewhat swank apartment in a salty town on a Navy pension. He told her not to ask questions.

Standing in front of her closet, every article of clothing she owned was suddenly deemed unworthy. She scrutinized several types of outfits: a blouse and dark jeans, a blazer and slacks but landed on a black skirt, heeled boots and a valentine red sweater. A subconscious homage to the red ink of his note to her. Maybe there was something significant about his choice to use it, her choice to wear it.

Opening her jewelry box, she selected a few understated pieces. Pearl earrings, for class. A sterling silver ring, for her right hand. Everything was set. It was one in the morning.

It was a fitful night of off-and-on sleep and ceiling staring. She saw the dawn crack the horizon and groaned at her exhaustion, though fighting off this day would be well worth it come eight o'clock tonight. She was hopeful.

The passing of hours was languid, the buildup to eight o'clock like torturous foreplay. She dressed and prepared her hair and makeup thoughtfully, remembering how she looked at their first meeting and wanting to blow that memory of his out of the water. Before heading out the door, she dabbed on her favorite perfume, pulled on her wool coat and leather gloves, and clipped out of her building to the street to get a taxi. She fidgeted in the back seat, thrilled, but apprehensive of what lay ahead of her. What were his intentions for the evening? What were hers?

The white gloved doorman approached the taxi, opening her door and offering a hand to help her out. She already felt like a princess. On shaky legs and heels, she stepped into the grand entrance of the glimmering hotel lobby. She scanned around, knowing he would stand out. Her eyes stopped at the bar when she locked eyes with him. The corners of her lips turned up immediately, without warning. He was already working his way into her heart.

He stood immediately and made his way toward her. He looked every bit as good as he did upon their first meeting, a charcoal three-piece suit and crimson patterned tie his choice this evening. Her decision to wear red did not go unnoticed as he swept his eyes over her and smiled back at her, eyes bright. The chasm between them was coming to a close.

He was the first to speak. It would have been so regardless. She was admittedly bad at this and he just stunned her into silence with his appearance alone. It wasn't just the threads, but the aura of a man dripping with confidence and control.

"I'm delighted you decided to come," he said, offering his right hand to her. She slid her shaking fingers into his and he closed over them with his left hand, warming and calming her. The affect the contact was having was not lost on her. She looked down at their hands and fought to stay focused. Following her eyes and concerned it was too much, too fast, he carefully dropped their hands.

"I'm flattered you decided you wanted more, considering how I introduced myself to you on our first meeting," she admitted, chuckling nervously. With her hands available again, the fidgeting came back. Sensing her unease, he motioned toward the bar.

"Shall we?"

She nodded in agreement. A drink would certainly help this situation. At least for her. He was so cool and collected. She concluded that likely came with age. Not that she was trying to gage, but it was clear he had some years on her. He placed his hand in the curve of her back and led her to the bar. Even through her coat, she felt a shiver run through her at the gesture. It wasn't so much about being touched. It was about being led.

He pulled out a chair for her at a table for two tucked into a corner of the bar, quiet and darker. He chose the seat facing the exit, she assumed so she would have nothing else to look at but him. She didn't mind. They were approached by a waiter and her date motioned for her to order first.

She was afraid to open her mouth for fear she would stutter. Her knowledge of wine was nil. College parties consisted of your basic rum and cola or lemon drop shots. Reluctantly, she suggested, "The Malbec, Mendoza?"

Leaning in and lowering his voice, he softly suggested, "We would be remiss being in this European-inspired lounge to drink an Argentinian wine. If you'll permit me?" he asked her permission before ordering for them. She nodded her agreement, relieved. "The '02 Chambertin-Clos de Bèze, two glasses, please"

His voice was mellifluous, the French dripped like honey from his lips. She found herself staring down at his mouth as he spoke, entranced by his smooth and gravelly timbre, the shape of his perfect lips and how soft they looked. It would be prudent to get that under control now, before the French wine arrived. She was unsure about the varietal that was about to be delivered to their table, but if it was anything like him, she knew it would be delicious, tempting, strong and able to knock her off her feet.

Once they were each poured a generous glass of the pinot, he raised his toward her and she followed suit.

"May this wine, red as your lips and full of promise as this night, be the first of many shared between us," he toasted.

She nearly swooned. Not twenty minutes into her first date with him and it was already exceeding her every unspoken expectation. She quickly took a first sip of her wine to try and hide the color that was rising in her cheeks. He raised his glass as well, eyes intent on her over the rim.

"I noticed that you were carrying some rather large books, last we met. What exactly are you studying at Columbia?" he asked, breaking the proverbial ice.

"Wait. I'm sorry, it has been two months since I last saw you, yet I have thought of you often in that time." Try every minute. Little white lie. "Are you ever going to tell me your name? It's only fair, you know mine."

"Call me Red. It's sort of a nickname," he offered, hoping that would satisfy for now.

"Red. Interesting. To answer your question, I am studying to be a criminal profiler," she said.

"Well, that's the last thing I am going to say this evening," he teased. Like she hadn't heard that before. She wasn't in the habit of profiling everyone she met, just the real contenders. She had already figured him to be wealthy, powerful, commanding yet somehow vulnerable. Like something in his past left a scar that could only be dealt with daily by covering up in layers of fine clothing and subterfuge.

"That would be a shame because I have never been a fan of one-sided conversations and I was hoping to get to know you better."

"I try not to make a habit of disappointing beautiful women. So what would you like to know?" he asked tilting his head slightly to the right, getting a better view of the candle at their table flickering light onto her slightly blushing cheeks. Beautiful did not do her justice, she was an angel.

"I hardly know how to respond to that. How did you become such an eloquent conversationalist?"

"I know this will come as a shock to you, but I'm a little bit older than you. My parents were professors, so I suppose I was taught proper speech and a broad vocabulary from a young age. I've also traveled a great deal. I didn't come here to bore you, though," he said, leaning back in his seat.

She leaned in the more he spoke about himself, hanging on every word. "I don't imagine you could ever be boring. I'm the boring one. There's not much that is special about me."

"Oh, I think you're very special, Lizzie." He caught her off guard. There was no other way he could think to do it.

"That's a fairly lofty sentiment, considering you don't even know me," she replied, suddenly feeling under his microscope. "And I don't think anyone besides my father has called me Lizzie in years."

He took a long, deliberate pull on his drink, buying a moment of time. "There is something I wanted to tell you. It's why I asked you to come tonight."

"Okay, Red, you're starting to freak me out a little bit," she replied, fidgeting in her seat now. She gulped down copious amounts of the expensive French wine. Feeling the warmth it sent to her throat spread from there to her fingers and toes. But she wasn't drinking for warmth now. She was drinking for composure.

"Perhaps we could walk a bit?" he suggested, hoping for a change of venue.

"I guess that would be ok. My dad would freak if he knew I was walking around the city at this time of night," she offered in slightly alcohol-induced honesty.

"I won't leave your side for a moment. I have a driver standing by in case you'd rather go for a drive," he was taking a huge risk suggesting she get into his car so soon.

"No, I think some fresh air might be a good idea." With that, he rose and pulled out her chair as she stood, helping her into her coat before pulling his own on. They crossed the marble floor of the grand lobby in slightly awkward silence. She was starting to compose her list of questions to follow up his subtle declaration. The chilly night air shocked her, eliciting a small girlish squeak from deep inside. He offered his left elbow, stepping to the side of her closest to the street. For a split second, she hesitated, warring thoughts raising internal conflict. She finally slipped her hand into his arm and looked up to meet his eyes. He was intently focused on her, surveying her reaction and trying to school his own as she touched him.

Once again, she felt the unmistakable spark at being caught in his gaze. Street noise brought her back to reality and they started to walk. She was keeping her shivers under control best as she could, but the chill of the night and the thrill of being on his arm was overtaking her. She finally gave up and drew closer to him, their legs in sync as they walked and very close. She was loathe to break the precious bubble they found themselves in, but there was now a nagging question in the recesses of her analytical mind.

"So you think I'm very special, huh? If I told you about my childhood and my extremely exciting life today, you might not think so," she remarked, causing him to slow them to a halt and take her left hand, turning her toward him.

"You _are _special, Lizzie. I'm sorry you don't see it in yourself, but I do."

Their eyes locked. Street noise muffled and passersby blurred. It was just him. Just her. He held her stare as long as he could stand it, knowing he was about to lose his nerve. A tendril of auburn hair blew across her face and he reflexively reached a hand up to gently smooth it back into place, lightly skimming her cheek with his fingers in the process. Her eyes slid shut at the contact. An intimate gesture, like they had known each other for years.

"What if I told you your childhood was actually quite remarkable? Sam did a wonderful job raising you, Lizzie."

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "I don't remember mentioning my father's name. What do you know about my childhood?"

"If you only knew how long I've waited, how far I've come to get to you."

She was beginning to feel exasperated. She dropped her hand from his, stepping back and raising her hands in defense.

"I don't know what this is, but I didn't come here to play games," she hissed. He tried to gather her back to himself. She was having none of it. Folding her arms in frustration, she finished, "Answers. Now."

"I've never seen this side of you, forgive me. I'm taken aback," he offered, hoping to appease and momentarily calm her. "What I said about your childhood is true. There was nothing ordinary about it. And here you are, grown into an intelligent, tough, incredibly beautiful woman. I know because, from a distance, I have watched you grow up."

"If you know all of this about me, then you also know that I don't form attachments, I don't do relationships well and I don't like being toyed with," she spat, now visibly agitated with him and turning to leave.

"Elizabeth, wait. Upsetting you is the last thing I ever wanted." She froze at the sound of his voice as it dropped, saying her full name. He reached into his breast pocket and opened the leather folio, thumbing its contents. Finally, finding what he was after, he stopped still, staring at his hands.

A photo.

Worn. Kept close to his heart.

He offered it to her. Her arms felt like lead, but finally reached up toward his outstretched hand, eyes following his.

And it hit her. The dress blues. Sam. His best friend. The party.

"How did you…" her words trailed off. She was overcome. Years of unrelenting emotions she willed to hold back were screaming to the surface. Refusing to give him a scene, she thrust the photo back into his hands and quickly spun on her heels, leaving the usually unflappable man speechless and stone-still. She was across the street and in a taxi before he could offer her a ride home.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I am so grateful for your kind reviews. As always, just for fun, not making any money from The Blacklist._


	4. Cold Front

He stood alone on the street for a moment letting the chill of her absence overtake him. Winter was truly bitter without her warmth.

Finally, as her taxi disappeared from his sight, he was resigned that the night was over. His first chance, over. He sulked back to his waiting car and driver, sinking into the luxurious leather interior and sighing heavily. After a decade in his faithful service, Dembe knew when to urge conversation and when to drive in silence. He had always known Raymond to be a proper gentleman: he dressed impeccably well, sat up straight, held doors, ladies first. For the first time in his memory, he saw him slouched heavily in defeat.

Raymond's head rest against the seat, offering him a view through the sunroof up into the glimmering New York skyline. 'She's out there, somewhere, angry with me,' he thought. Even though Lizzie was a grown woman, after all she had been through in her young life, he couldn't bear to know that his decision to finally come out of hiding would be met with such disappointment. All he wanted, all he ever wanted for her was for her to have a normal upbringing and no obstacles between herself and what she felt her true calling in life would be. Four years had nearly passed and he knew every day of them where she lived and what she was studying. It wasn't his place, but if she had been his daughter, he certainly would have steered her away from Criminology. Interesting, her career path choice. She had grown up so innocently and Sam ran in a very small, very straight-laced circle of upstanding citizens. So much unlike himself.

The ride back to his hotel was forgivingly brief and he was quick to make his way to his suite. He didn't stop to hang his coat and hat but went straight for the scotch. He took a long pull, hoping the burn would slow the rapid pulsation in his chest. For the first time in years, Raymond Reddington was undone.

She was his undoing.

If brooding was an art, he was like Rembrandt. He faced an oversized leather chair toward the balcony and through alcohol fuzzed eyes, stared into the distance, not at anything in particular. Thoughts of her wouldn't keep at bay for long. He wondered what she was doing. Was she sleeping? Was she still fuming at him? Would she ever be willing to speak to him again? Warring thoughts battled on through the night. A migraine was creeping nearby.

Blocks away, Elizabeth closed her apartment door behind her and fell against it, the crushing weight of confusion pushing her to the floor. She had known for nearly four years now about Reddington but had never been able to find out much about him. Sam had said enough the night she left for college but she managed to casually eke out a few details now and then when she called. She couldn't understand all the secrecy around this man, why she wasn't able to know about him for so long and wait – why did he wait so long into their date to reveal who he really was? A familiar flip low in her belly confirmed it. He wanted it to be a date, too. He wanted her to see him as just a man. More than the angel of mercy from all those years ago. She had no memory of him. Was he taking a chance that she didn't remember him or did he know enough about her to confirm it? If he had been keeping tabs on her through Sam, her father had remained silent on the subject. But go figure. What else about her life was held back from her? It was all up for grabs now.

The tears that threatened on the street in front of him and in the taxi were given free reign. A balancing act of years between the deep longing to know her past and avoiding upsetting the man who self-sacrificially raised her, no questions asked had caught up with her. She knew it would. Sam knew it, too, he just wished there had been a way to give her the answers she seemed so desperate at times to know. Retired or not, even ex-military men still knew how to follow orders.

It was no use trying to pretend it didn't hurt, it wasn't confusing as hell to feel these sparks with a man only to find out their connection to a past life. She wiped at the tears finally and bringing her hand close to her face, she noticed it. She smelled him, lingering on her skin, her coat. Inhaling deep, his essence enveloped her being, spilling over into her soul. The ugly sob she struggled to hold on to begged for release. She surrendered. Hugging her knees to her chest and laying her head on them, she let the sobs continue until she was exhausted. Shrugging out of her coat and kicking off her shoes, she crawled into bed, flopping down with the rest of her clothes still on. Sleep came mercifully.

When she next opened her eyes, it was morning. Saturday. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing to occupy her racing thoughts of him.

Him.

In sleepy haze, she padded to the street-facing window and relaxed her forehead against it. He was out there, somewhere.

Across town, Raymond woke, groggy from a restless night, groaning inwardly about facing this day. Yawning and stretching, he went in search of coffee. Copious amounts of coffee. Pouring a cup, he made his way to the window, surveying the morning breaking through the skyline.

His Elizabeth, Lizzie. Things had gone unexpectedly bad. He could claim that because as a master game theorist, he had strategized about when it made sense to place himself back in her life, how he would do it, what he would say, even what he expected her reaction to be finally meeting him. What he didn't expect were all the little things he could never have planned for: how her smile infected him, the way her auburn hair refracted light and framed her angelic face, how her bright eyes burned into him, her touch. God, her touch brought him to life, would bring him to his knees, would be the death of him.

He had to get another chance with her.

Elizabeth was pulled from her wandering thoughts at the window by a knock at her door. It was odd, no one had buzzed from the street. She certainly wasn't expecting anyone while still in last night's clothing. She took a look through the peep hole in her door only to see a stranger waiting on the other side. She said nothing, thinking maybe he would leave.

"Ms. Scott?"

Dammit.

"Yes?" she replied, unsure.

"I work for Mr. Reddington. I have something for you," the tall stranger said.

"If its flowers or something, I'm not interested," she said to the door defiantly.

"Ms. Scott, please, it is nothing like that."

Sighing deeply, she ran her fingers though her hair, taming her bed head. Still hesitant, she cracked the door enough to see her visitor.

"My name is Dembe, I work for Mr. Reddington," he said to her, hand outstretched to her. She offered her own.

"It's nice to meet you, Dembe, but as I said, I don't want any gifts from him. I don't know if he told you about –"

He stopped her before she could elaborate. "I know about last night. I also know about you, Ms. Scott. Raymond was very much looking forward to finally meeting you," he trailed off, then with eyes cast down, "I have, been, too."

At that, she didn't know what to say. Her cheeks suddenly felt hot at the realization that she had been being watched, maybe even followed.

Dembe handed her a small box and with a silent nod, bid her good day.

She sank heavily onto the couch, the box in her lap staring up at her. Opening it, she gasped at the familiar sight of ivory linen and red ink:

_Open me…_


	5. The Box

_Open me…_

She could only stare at the box, like an unseen force was keeping her from giving into her curiosity. The silence of the room made her ever aware of her thumping heart.

Too small to be flowers.

Too soon to be jewelry.

Fighting against the heaviness in her limbs and with trembling fingers, she finally examined the box, cautiously opening the lid.

Inside, a phone.

She flipped it open, holding her breath. It was on, but scrolling through she noticed that it had seemingly never been used. There was one contact name: Red.

Relieved, she exhaled, unable to keep a stupid smile from spreading across her face. It shouldn't surprise her that he would pick the most non-conventional way to call her the night after their almost date. He was, at the very least, unconventional.

The giddy feeling at holding the only means of communicating with him in her hand dissipated into a wave of trepidation. He was going to call her. Ask her why she fled their date. Probably more, but she had so many questions for him. Some she felt that, given the chance, she would be compelled to ask, yet fearful of having answered.

She was on unsteady feet quickly, pacing, phone in hand. Holding it up, she stared intently at it as she crossed back and forth across her apartment, willing it to ring. Fearing it would ring. Palms sweaty, thoughts racing. At this point, she was convincing herself, out loud, that she could handle this, that she was unaffected by meeting the one person on earth that held the key to her past, maybe even her future.

For something she thought she wanted for so long, now with the possibility in front of her, the fear crept close. Intuitively, she knew there was something unsavory about her childhood and how she came to be Sam's Lizzie. But what? Secrets are kept for a reason. But here he was. The secret, in the flesh.

She was visibly trembling, sitting finally to forgive her weakened knees.

What would Sam always say? "You're a Scott. We don't break, we fight…"

_And we have not yet begun to fight_, he would always add with a far-off look in his eye that told her that a Navy story was coming. Tales of a different time, a place with far varying expectations, but he knew that the life lessons he gleaned from his time in the service of his country could be applied to civilian life, as well. She mostly rolled her eyes at him as he spun the tales.

That was before she understood. Before she realized that he was imparting life lessons she would one day cling to. Above all else, Sam would make sure, by combining everything he didn't know about parenting with everything he did know about preparing for battle that, against all odds, he turned out a fierce and headstrong young woman. A woman, he swore, would one day take on the world itself. She would be strong, resourceful, unbreakable.

Red was reclined in his sumptuous leather chair, still gazing out into the city, surveying the goings on below. He often found himself lost in the story of others, watching them walk from shop to shop, observing them in conversations, trying to imagine himself as someone so normal.

Normalcy.

It had been a lifetime. The more he thought about it, the more he felt lost. Could a normal existence truly belong to him once again? Could he safely live in one place for more than a few nights? Walk confidently during the day without a body guard? Go to dinner, the movies, grocery shopping, even? Do things ordinary people did, like fall in love?

In spite of all reason, the answer to every question was her name.

He made it a habit of being presumptuous and figuring the rest out later. He was twenty years her senior and God, he was painfully aware of it. All you had to do was look at her, the life, youth, exuberance just spilled out of every finger, every strand of her silken hair like warm sunshine. She was the sunshine. He thought about what a day of standing in her radiance would do to him. He thought about all he had seen, all he had done and the toll it had already taken on his appearance, aging him. His insides were just as affected. The tumultuous, nearly twenty year journey of truth was costly, taking away loving family, trusted friends and mentors out of his life, leaving virtually no one. Leaving the kind of emptiness that could swallow a lesser man.

But if she would have him, he would never succumb to the desolate wasteland of his own loneliness again.

Enough of this. He had to have her. He had to make the next move.

The phone chirped, nearly scaring her out of her thoughts. It was now or never.

Stone still, she opened the phone and listened in, saying nothing.

After a moment, he finally broke the silence, "Hello, Lizzie."

In only twenty-four hours, she was certain of a few things. One, that she could probably subsist on just listening to him say her name.

"Hi," she replied, cautiously.

"I'm glad you opened the box. I was hopeful that you would, but with how we said good-bye last night, I couldn't be sure."

"We didn't actually say good-bye. I owe you an apology for leaving you like that," she corrected, without actually apologizing.

"I bear some responsibility for that, too. I waited so long, Lizzie, it's not how I planned and trust me when I say, I very rarely go off-book," he admitted.

"What made this time different?" She could hear him sigh on the other end. She imagined his chest rising and falling with the weight of his words leaving him.

"You. Everything about you was unexpected."

She was unprepared for this, but the added privacy of the phone at least gave her some space to pace and fidget without the added pressure of his observation.

"I guess at some point, if you want to continue to speak with me, you'll be a little less cryptic and far more direct with me," she finally said boldly.

He chuckled warmly. "Ah, Lizzie, you don't know me very well."

"No, I don't, but you seem to know a lot about me. I can only surmise that you and Sam have kept in touch?"

"We have, but I'm ashamed to admit it has been years. A fact I will soon rectify, now that I have met you," he said.

She chewed on that for a moment. Sam and Red, in the same room after many years have slipped away, and she, now an adult. She imagined Navy stories exchanged, the usual catching up of old friends and at long last, the truth being shared with her.

"I think we have plenty to talk about between us before we involve my dad," she countered. His heart warmed at hearing her call him 'dad.' His desire for her had always been that she would consider Sam her father. He knew, all too well, that 'dad' went so far beyond being mere genetic linkage, but was a sign of love. A sign of trust. All he ever wanted for her.

"You're right, Lizzie, we do, but I would prefer we speak in person."

She gave that some thought. Instant electricity at their first meeting. Clear sexual tension in their second right up until he confessed his history with her. She considered his proposal of a third meeting. She wanted answers.

A cross roads lay at her feet.

The cost of answers no longer mattered. Reckless or not, she was all in.

"Okay. Let's meet."


	6. Mea Culpa

_A/N: Step in to my head canon, my friends. I did much research, but in the end, I'm taking some license so any historical facts that have been horrifically botched are purely my fault and for this, you have my apologies. Also, any random nod/homage you think that you notice is probably intentional. Nothing seemed off limits with this one and that's probably going to ring true for the rest of this as I am thoroughly unoriginal. Love you all. Love your comments, support and friendship._

The address he had given her was unfamiliar, yet she found herself walking briskly in search of it. Leaning into the wind and chill, she reminded herself – a few more blocks and everything would change.

Rounding the corner, she suddenly found herself on one of those streets that didn't quite feel like it belonged in New York. All ancient brick and hand painted shop signs. No glaring neon or glimmering marble, the raucous clamoring of taxis mysteriously absent. A far cry from The Lucerne.

Her eyes scanned around looking for the coffee shop, then, there he was. One impeccably dressed shoulder leaning against the brick, one hand partially in his pocket, pulling back his suit coat just enough to reveal how perfectly tailored his vest and slacks were to his trim form. As anxious as she was for answers, she admitted inwardly that seeing him again, appreciating his body, his eyes, the way he dressed, was thrilling.

"Hello, Lizzie," and his voice. His voice was like liquid sex. Should he never touch her again, she was sure that listening to him read the phone book would satisfy her already aching need of him.

"This is where we are going? This hole in the wall?" she questioned.

"Ah, don't be deceived by appearances, Lizzie. True beauty is found within."

She could only blink back at him and digest his words. Surely, he was speaking about more than coffee shops.

He held the door for her and smiling, with his head tilted to the side, "shall we?"

As he had before, he ushered her to their table with his hand at the curve of her back. Gentle, reassuring. They made themselves comfortable in a rather secluded booth. He helped her out of her coat then excused himself to get their drinks.

As inconspicuously as she could, she craned her neck around the booth to follow him with her eyes. The way he smiled at others, how he talked with his hands. She couldn't get enough of studying him. Everything about him was exciting and dangerous. Dangerous because her desire for him was steadily growing, regardless of their connection. Regardless of what he was about to reveal to her about her past. Their past.

He carefully placed two steaming mugs on the table.

"If you would like milk or sugar, I will be happy to get it for you," he offered.

"I prefer black, but thank you," she replied.

"Ah, just like me," and their eyes met for a moment before she felt her cheeks warm in her own shyness. She cast her eyes down into the mug, avoiding the intensity of his stare so she could collect herself.

"So the other night, you were starting to tell me about becoming a criminal profiler, but we didn't get very far on the –"he began as she raised a palm in protest.

"Wait. You're kidding me, right? I didn't come here for small talk, Red. I came here for a history lesson. Literally, every detail, right now," she demanded.

He looked away, trying so hard not to smile in admiration of her. Her gumption. She was sharp, perceptive and justifiably impatient.

"It's a long story, Lizzie," he said into the distance, a weary look crossing his face.

"I don't have any plans tonight," she stated matter-of-factly. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward, challenging.

"You want answers about your parents, about how you came into Sam's life. Into my life," he lifted his eyes to meet hers then. "To understand, we have to go back to the beginning. To me and Sam. We met during a rather…unsavory assignment early on in our enlistment. He had a mouth like a sailor, quite literally, and got us into some hot water with our CO" he chuckled remembering a young and wild Sam. Lizzie visibly relaxed, smiling warmly. "Oh, the way our knees bruised after hours scrubbing that mess hall floor."

"I know so little about what he was like back then. I'm glad he was interesting for at least a while, before I ruined his life."

He narrowed his eyes severely, her words wounding. "Lizzie, how could you ever think you ruined Sam's life? You _saved _his life. More than you'll ever know."

She shook her head, disbelieving. "I saved him? I don't understand."

"You see, leaving the Navy was devastating to him. A long career of service to his country is all he ever hoped for," he began.

"And then I destroyed it."

"No. He was hurt about a year before you… well, just, a year before." He was visibly struggling now. Chewing on words, mentally ordering them and trying decide which ones to employ. "The Navy wanted to assign him to a desk job, but Sam's pride was wounded along with his leg and he decided to move on. He felt disgrace, disappointment and though it wasn't his fault, he wallowed in it for a while. You saved him from a life of living in that shadow, giving him fresh wind in his sails."

She hung her head, shameful that she labored under a misapprehension about Sam for so many years. She thought if she just kept her head down for a bit, he would miss the glaze of unshed tears collecting. Until one of them hurried down her cheek without permission. Taking a risk, he reached a hand out to lift her chin, careful not to wince at the evidence of her tears. Instead, he gently brushed over one cheek with his thumb, melting her insides. They shared a long, unblinking glance until he withdrew his hand.

"Elizabeth, Sam was always encouraging me to keep going. Keep running, keep fighting. I wonder what I would have become without him by my side," he recalled, his voice gravelly and low. "His time in the Navy, however brief, it changed things for him. For me, for you."

She cleared the lump in her throat and took a deep, cleansing breath and quietly thanked him.

His reassurances notwithstanding, the feeling of indebtedness to Sam was overwhelming, now more than ever. No matter who her father was, Sam would always be her dad.

She worked to find her voice once more. "So how is Sam connected to my real parents?"

"It's my fault, really. I am the reason he was caught up in all of this. I suppose you knew that."

"I had begged Sam for answers about my parents, off and on growing up. The night before I left for college, I cornered him. He told me about the fire, about my mother dying in a fire set intentionally to kill my father. Red, what was my father that people would want to kill him?"

"I can't give you everything. Not being a part of Naval Intelligence anymore doesn't make it less of a felony to divulge classified operational material. But that's why we're here, in this, as you called it, 'hole in the wall.' I trust the owners and this place is clean. No bugs," he began cautiously. "No listening devices," he whispered to clarify, seeing her confused look.

"I guess I have naïvely thought that cloak and dagger stuff like that only happened in movies."

"That's what civilians are supposed to think, but it's very real. During the last Cold War, there was so much distrust in the world, especially between major powers like the U.S. and the Soviet Union. Secrets were a commodity during the Cold War. They were traded like gold and paid for with lives. I was assigned to a deep cover operation to obtain secrets from a high ranking member of the KGB, posing as his attaché. I lived with him and his wife for two years and in that time, they gave birth to a baby girl," his said, eyes shining at her.

"Me? So, my real parents were Russian."

"Not just Russian. Royalty. Your mother was a Romanov by blood. She met and fell in love with your father, but marrying a member of the KGB was forbidden by her family, so they ran away. She changed her name and lost ties with everyone she knew. In the time I was with them, much as I tried, I never learned her real name although she went by Katya."

She inhaled deep, soaking in his words.

"And my father's name?" she tried.

"Lizzie, I can't. There's so much, I just can't," he said shaking his head slightly, somberly.

This was more difficult than she had imagined. Grappling with the past and all she did not know – things she may never know about herself.

"I guess I will have to accept that, for now," her thinly veiled promise to revisit this topic clearly not lost on him.

"You have to. It's the only way I know to keep you safe. Promise me that this will be enough for now," he pressed her, a look of near horror crossing his face.

"Red, should I be scared? Of knowing this? I mean, am I unsafe now?"

"Never be scared, Lizzie. You're a strong, vibrant, beautiful woman. You've deserved to know something about your past for a long time. I will only ever tell you what is safe for you to know. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he promised.

Though their relationship was new, brief, she somehow had faith that he would make good on this promise.

"During the years I lived with your parents, my assignment was to pass information about a program the then Soviet government was running back to the U.S. government. This went on successfully for nearly two years, but by then, the Cold War had reached a climax and the suspicion was upon everyone who could be leaking information to the U.S. Your father was not excluded from this suspicion and was under surveillance by Soviet counterintelligence. I was tipped off that they were coming for both your father and me, but they surprised us before I could escape. The next thing I knew, the house was engulfed in flames. Some parts are still hazy," he admitted, obviously overcome by the memory.

It was killing her to watch him struggle, especially at her own behest. She reached a hand over and set it atop his own, letting her thumb wander back and forth across his warm skin. At first he just watched her hand, seemingly amazed.

She waited silently for his eyes to meet hers again and when they did, she melted under the look of awe in his eyes. How long had it been since a woman had been tender with him, she wondered. Certainly, there were few, if any, that knew about his depth of devotion to his country and the safety of a little Russian girl.

"I remember it in flashes, mostly in nightmares," he admitted quietly. "My belief is that I was knocked out and left for dead along with your mother. When I came to, I saw her on the floor. Lizzie, I crawled to her through the embers, the house literally collapsing around us, but I was too late. She did have time, though, to hide you in a hatch in the floor, which she covered with a small rug and then her own body. Her last act was to try and put you somewhere safe."

Tears streaked her face unashamedly, now. Her memory had betrayed her, told her she had been unwanted by her mother. The truth, sinking in, was freeing all the anger and resentment she had built up over the years at this misconception.

"I had no idea. I always thought I was simply unwanted," she whispered, voice breaking through her tears.

He took her hand in both his own now. It was his turn to comfort her.

"Lizzie, you could never be unwanted. I know your mother loved you. I watched her as she was expecting you and then as she began to raise you and saw nothing but the purest joy and love that she had for you. It saddened me that at some point, my assignment would be over and I would return to the states and never see you again. If the fire hadn't happened, if I hadn't been there to cause suspicion to fall upon your father, maybe none of this would have happened. I blame myself for all that's happened to you. Not growing up with your real family," he confessed, a weight carried for years leaving him along with the air he expelled heavily from his lungs.

She thought about that for a moment. Even if he bore responsibility in drawing the attention of her father's superiors, he was following orders. What good would it do to be bitter about that which neither of them had any control over?

"When I heard you under the floor boards, I was so relieved. I only remember carrying you out of the house and running until we collapsed into the snow. If I hadn't had a tracking chip on me, I don't know what would have happened. We were airlifted to Quantico and, after a very long debrief, I requested to transfer you to a secure location myself. It was a long shot, but I knew if anyone was going to come after you, that a military commissioned orphanage would be an easy target. I knew you had to become an American, to assimilate into American life as quickly as possible. I cut your hair and changed your name and called the one person on earth I knew I could always count on."

"Sam."

"I contacted him and through back channels, got on the next plane I could to get you to Nebraska. You have to know, Sam would always have done anything for me without question, but taking you, he wasn't just helping out a friend. He fell in love with your little smile and sweet blue eyes instantly. That was the moment he became a dad," he said, hoping to assuage any doubt she could still have. "And you know the rest. Sam raised you. He did a fantastic job."

She flashed him a quick smile. Brief, but a glow he longed to bask in more often, should she oblige.

"I don't know what to say. This is a lot of information to digest. In some way, I am relieved to know this, and yet, I feel like it will take a while for all of this to completely sink in," she said.

"Understandable. It's not every day you have your life turned upside down," he assured her, but thinking of how his life hadn't been the same since she was back in it, how it would never be the same again.

He stood, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. She turned as he slipped her coat around her and said into her ear, "I think we have nearly worn out our welcome here. Shall we go?"

She turned around while his lips were still near enough to her ear to feel his breath. Only a whisper of space between their bodies.

She leaned into his ear.

"I don't want to be alone tonight, Raymond."


End file.
